kookyGremlin
Member
The old storyteller made his way slowly up the three steps which formed the base of the statue that stood at the centre of the marketplace. He leaned down and carefully placed his ale tankard on the top step. Then, groaning theatrically, he sat himself down resting his back against the smooth marble of the statue’s plinth. He placed his old walnut walking stick at his side and took off his battered leather cap, laying it on the step below him. No sooner had he done so than the first coins started to land inside it. He stretched and looked around at the gathering crowd.
The children came first, pulling at their parents’ hands, pointing excitedly. Then came the rest: old folk and young, quiet loners who stayed to the rear and groups of people who chatted excitedly as they came close. There were couples in love, the men tossing in coins to impress their ladies, town guards surreptitiously sidling closer, even some of the traders put the shutters down on their stalls and walked over to listen. The storyteller smiled, nodding his thanks as the coins fell. He judged the moment carefully as the crowd began to still before clearing his throat.
“Good day my friends, good day to you all! You have come to hear a tale, and a tale I shall tell.” He paused a moment allowing the last few conversations to settle down.
“But what shall it be today, good people? Will it be an adventure with daring duels and villainous rogues? Perhaps a story of unrequited love and hopeless romance?” To his left, a pretty girl sighed longingly and several people chuckled good-naturedly. The Storyteller’s lips twitched upwards and his eyes sparkled. He had them.
People started shouting out their requests.
“The tale of the three beggars!”
“The Queen and the heart of glass.”
“Patsy and the pancakes!”
“Make way for the king!”
The crowd broke into excited murmurs as they looked around. The Storyteller craned his neck trying to look beyond the gathered people. He saw the glint of sunlight on armour and then the crowd was moving aside forming a corridor as His Majesty, King Markus III approached. The king was old now, and the storyteller noted how his shoulders bowed. He felt a twinge of sympathy in his own arthritic knees as he saw Markus’ careful gait and the way his gnarled hand held tightly to his walking stick. The crowd bowed respectfully as he passed them. The storyteller remained seated. He was far too old for all that nonsense and just grinned as the King approached.
“Your Majesty! I am honoured.”
The old king smiled. “It’s been too long.”
The storyteller nodded. “And what can I do for you today, Sire? Have you a tale you would like to hear?”
The king looked around the crowd of gathered people and then his face tilted upwards to regard the finely crafted bronze statue. The people followed his gaze curiously.
King Markus nodded to the statue slightly and spoke softly. “Tell her story.”
The storyteller inclined his head slightly. He lifted the tankard and took a slow drink. Sighing in appreciation he replaced the tankard and settled himself, placing his hands on his thighs and leaning forwards.
“My friends,” He began, “many of you have walked past this statue every day. I daresay most of you have spared a glance at the pretty girl who stands above me. Perhaps you have noted her simple clothing. Maybe you have wondered about her, your eyes searching out a plaque or inscription.
Many in the crowd smiled to themselves while others nodded. One young boy, was looking intently at the statue. He frowned.
“There ain’t no words!”
The storyteller nodded. “That’s right my young friend. She has no name plate, no inscription.”
The child was about to ask another question but he was silenced by his mother. The boy scowled angrily but the storyteller raised a placating hand.
“It’s all right lad, I know what you were going to ask. Who is she?”
The boy nodded.
“Well, that is the question, and what follows is the best answer I can give.”
“Many, many years ago, a very long time before any of you were born, there was a wicked king. He was very cruel to his people and taxed them mercilessly. He punished the guilty far beyond their crimes and drafted most of the young men into his armies to fight his petty wars.
It was a very sad time for the city. The people were poor and many fell to disease, some died of starvation, or were imprisoned for being unable to pay the taxes. But the king seemed not to care. He was only interested in how much gold he had, and who he was fighting with this year.
One day, he received a visit from the elders of the city. They hoped the king might find some small measure of sympathy and ease the burdens on his people. But do you know what happened?”
Several of the children had huddled closer as he spoke and were now shaking their heads.
“Well, my friends.” The storyteller continued, leaning closer still. “The king became enraged. ‘How dare they’, he cried. He stamped around the castle accusing his people of being lazy and disloyal. He simply could not understand why his people would be so faithless. He was so furious he could barely sleep that night, determined to prove to everyone he was right.
The next morning he dressed in his finest clothes. After a hearty breakfast, he summoned his guards and made his way down to this very market square. The people bowed and scraped as he past, never daring to look up. The King looked around, searching for proof of his convictions.
Firstly, he approached a fruit seller. Much of the woman’s fruit was bruised and few items had their full growth. He smiled, thinking he might have found his proof.
‘Trader,’ he exclaimed, ‘why is your fruit in such poor condition? Are you so idle that you cannot tend to your orchards properly?’
The fruit seller shook her head. ‘Sire,’ she said, ‘all of my best fruit is sent to the castle for your feasts, or the garrisons to feed your troops. Your factors personally select all the best fruit before every market day. This is all I have left to feed your people.’
The king grunted in grudging acceptance but was clearly annoyed at the response. He nodded curtly and turned away. He walked across to an ironmonger’s stall where he frowned at the tin and bronze items on display.
‘Trader, where are your iron goods? Are you so inept that you cannot keep your fires hot enough? Or are you so weak you cannot hammer the steel?’
The ironmonger shook his head. ‘No Sire, if truth be told, there is precious little iron to buy as Your Majesty’s armourers buy it all in order to clad your knights in fine mail shirts, or to make strong swords for your men at arms and nails for your warships. Your people have to make do with what I can buy after I have paid your taxes.’
The King’s brow furrowed and his cheeks coloured in anger. This was not what he had expected to hear and he felt that his people were reproaching him. He turned away crossly and strode to a baker’s stall. Eyeing the poor goods on display he tore open a loaf. He sniffed, and took a cautious bite. Screwing up his face he spat out the bread.
‘Baker!’ He sputtered angrily, ‘this loaf is course and gritty. Explain why you are producing such poor fare; are you so lazy you cannot make flour?’
‘Sire,’ the baker began nervously, ‘your bakers and cooks buy up most of the good flour for your stores and your armies stomachs. I have to use only the poorest flour, and yes, I have to add mashed potatoes, chalk and even sawdust to make it go further. I make no apologies. Had I the flour I would make better, but at least
your people have food enough to live on.’
The King was now livid. He was being made to look like a fool. He stomped away and stood by the water trough that stood right where I am sitting now. He stared into the distance considering what punishments to exact on his disrespectful subjects. Just then, he happened to catch sight of a girl walking through the marketplace. She was dressed only in the simplest of peasant garb, but she held herself like a princess. His anger drained away and he looked at her in open admiration
The King, feeling for once in his life clumsy and awkward, quickly walked back to the fruit seller.
‘Trader, who is that girl who wanders so carefree in my city?”
‘I know not her name, Sire,’ said the woman, ‘but she is a gentle and caring soul, gifted in healing. Last week she helped cure my youngest daughter of the flux. I
think perhaps the ironmonger may know more. I see him speak to her often.’
The king nodded and walked back to the ironmonger. He pointed out the girl, who was smiling and laughing with a cloth merchant, ‘Trader, who is that girl with the hair like finely spun gold?’
The ironmonger smiled. ‘I know not her name, Sire. But she is wise beyond compare. Only last month she helped curb my drinking and my temper, thus saving my marriage. Now my wife and I are happy as can be. Perhaps you should ask the baker. I am sure he knows her quite well.’
The king, growing frustrated once again at not getting the answers he wanted, turned impatiently and strode back to the baker.
‘Baker,’ he barked, pointing at the girl who was now chatting with some children, ‘who is that woman?”
The baker followed his pointing finger and nodded smiling. ‘Sire, that is a most generous and selfless young lady. Why, a few weeks ago when I was sick with a fever, she baked my bread and tended my stall and would not take a single penny for herself.’
‘But what is her name, Baker?”
The Baker frowned. ‘Why, now you come to mention it, Sire, I do not believe I ever learned her name. But everyone knows her. She helps all folk without any thought of taking.’
The King’s scowl returned in full. Clearly, his entire city was populated by fools. Moreover, he was not sure he believed his subjects; no one could be so selfless and noble. He walked over to the girl who turned and smiled as he approached. For a moment, the King seemed unable to speak. He stood gaping for a moment before he could find his courage.
‘Fair lady, might you spare a moment for your King?’
The girl nodded still smiling. ‘I can Your Majesty, though I am not a subject of your kingdom, I am staying here but a while.’
The King seemed taken aback. ‘I see. I gather from my people that you are something of an angel in disguise with all your good deeds. Tell me lady, what profit do you make from all these good deeds. I cannot believe you do not benefit in some way. ’
Tilting her head, the girl considered. ‘Profit?’ she replied. ‘No profit as you would have it, Sire, but the thanks I receive make me happy and pleased that I can help.’
The King’s face darkened, but then he smiled, but unlike the girl’s gentle joy, his smile was full of craving and slyness.
‘Then good lady, perhaps you would do a service for me?’
The girl nodded. ‘Indeed Your majesty, I shall do you a great service, though you will not recognise it as such till it is too late.’
The King seemed not to hear as he continued unabated.
‘Then here is what I would have of you. Be my wife, and bear me strong sons and pretty daughters with hair like gold.’
The girl sighed, and to many it seemed her eyes were filled with sorrow. ‘Alas Sire, I cannot do as you ask. I shall not marry you, for your heart is of cold stone with no place for love inside.”
The King stood silent a moment, his fists clenched. Then he spoke softly. ‘But lady, my life is lonely; my castle is too large for me alone. I would share with you my wealth and power. I beg you to reconsider and ease my loneliness.’
Perhaps the King was playing a cruel game by trying to call on her giving nature, or perhaps the King was speaking from his heart, but regardless the girl shook her head.
‘No King, I cannot and will not. If I have air to breath, bread to eat and water to drink, then I am wealthy. If I can bring a smile to someone in need, then I have the greatest power a person can hold. You can offer me nothing of true value.’
Now the king showed his renewed anger, all his earlier rage magnified and redirected.
‘You shall marry me! You are in my city and subject to my rule!’
He reached out his hand to grasp her arm and she stepped to one side. He tried to grab her again but no matter how hard he tried, she seemed to always be able to evade his clutching hands. His face grew red and his eyes blazed as he drew his sword.
‘Damn you woman, hold still! Guards, take her!”
The King’s men moved to take the girl, but suddenly the market folk came from all sides forming a wall between the King and the girl, in the centre were the stern faces of the fruit seller, the ironmonger and the baker. The King howled in fury at this open rebellion and raised his sword above the ironmonger’s head.
‘Stand aside,’ the King snarled. But the ironmonger stood his ground. With a howl of fury, the sword slashed downwards.”
The storyteller paused and took another drink while taking a glance around the crowd. Every eye was on his face and it seemed the entire throng held their breath. He waited a few seconds, letting the anticipation grow and then he spoke again.
“No one can say for certain what happened next, but the next moment the ironmonger was pushed aside and in his place stood the girl. Then it was over, she had been cut almost in two so great was the blow.
The King, it was said, went as white as a sheet. He dropped his bloody sword on the ground next to her dead body. With a cry of anguish that wrung every heart there, he fled back to the castle. The folk gathered in the marketplace stood in stunned silence. Eventually, they took up what was left of the girl and bore her away.
For many days the King shut himself in his chambers and took little in the way of food or water. Days became weeks and summer turned to autumn.
It was on the autumn equinox when he finally emerged from his chambers. Few recognised him for he was thin and wasted and seemed many years older. But there was a new understanding in his eyes. Over the next few days he ordered his armies home, signed peace treaties with his neighbours and reduced the taxes. He tore up the old law books and set about writing new, fair laws. The same laws this land holds to this day.
A full year to day after those terrible events in the marketplace the King unveiled this very statue that I now lean my back against. From that day to this one, the kingdom has been a fair and just place to live. The King himself eventually found love and his wife bore sons who grew to be fair and wise, as were their children, on down through the generations to our very own dear King Markus.”
The Storyteller leant back, smiling, and the crowd stood quietly, some looking at the old king but many more gazing up at the statue of the girl. Finally the little boy broke the silence.
“But… who was she then?”
The Storyteller shrugged. “I know not her name. Like all of us here, it is not our name, or how wealthy we are that matters. It is what we do with our lives that defines us, and that is the lesson the girl taught us.”
At those words it was if a spell had been lifted. The crowd began to disperse talking amongst themselves, many of them throwing coins into the old man’s hat murmuring respectful thanks. The King nodded to him, smiling.
“My thanks, old friend, I grew up with the story, but you have a way of bringing it to life like no other.”
The Storyteller nodded his thanks, and the old King smiled once more and then turned slowly making his way back towards the castle.
The last to leave was the little boy. He searched through his pockets with a concerned expression then, his face changing to one of delight, he pulled a small wrapped honey sweet from his pocket and handed it to the Storyteller. The old man chuckled as he accepted it.
“My thanks, young sir.”
The boy flushed and grinned, and then ran off to join his parents. The storyteller counted his coins and poured them into his pouch. He placed the cap on his head and drained his tankard. He turned his head slightly towards the slim figure who now sat beside him, their face hidden beneath the hood of a cloak.
“Near cut in half? “
The voice was young and feminine and laced with gentle humour. “As I recall it was a single thrust to the heart.”
The storyteller smirked. “Artistic Licence. Besides, it’s more dramatic this way. You told me they have to remember. I make sure that they do.” He shook his purse appreciatively. “ I’ll say this, they pay better these days, that’s for sure.”
He picked up his stick and rose up slowly, grunting with the effort.
“So,” he said softly, “same time next year?”
The figure tucked an errant strand of fine, gold hair into her hood and nodded.
“As always, old friend.”
The children came first, pulling at their parents’ hands, pointing excitedly. Then came the rest: old folk and young, quiet loners who stayed to the rear and groups of people who chatted excitedly as they came close. There were couples in love, the men tossing in coins to impress their ladies, town guards surreptitiously sidling closer, even some of the traders put the shutters down on their stalls and walked over to listen. The storyteller smiled, nodding his thanks as the coins fell. He judged the moment carefully as the crowd began to still before clearing his throat.
“Good day my friends, good day to you all! You have come to hear a tale, and a tale I shall tell.” He paused a moment allowing the last few conversations to settle down.
“But what shall it be today, good people? Will it be an adventure with daring duels and villainous rogues? Perhaps a story of unrequited love and hopeless romance?” To his left, a pretty girl sighed longingly and several people chuckled good-naturedly. The Storyteller’s lips twitched upwards and his eyes sparkled. He had them.
People started shouting out their requests.
“The tale of the three beggars!”
“The Queen and the heart of glass.”
“Patsy and the pancakes!”
“Make way for the king!”
The crowd broke into excited murmurs as they looked around. The Storyteller craned his neck trying to look beyond the gathered people. He saw the glint of sunlight on armour and then the crowd was moving aside forming a corridor as His Majesty, King Markus III approached. The king was old now, and the storyteller noted how his shoulders bowed. He felt a twinge of sympathy in his own arthritic knees as he saw Markus’ careful gait and the way his gnarled hand held tightly to his walking stick. The crowd bowed respectfully as he passed them. The storyteller remained seated. He was far too old for all that nonsense and just grinned as the King approached.
“Your Majesty! I am honoured.”
The old king smiled. “It’s been too long.”
The storyteller nodded. “And what can I do for you today, Sire? Have you a tale you would like to hear?”
The king looked around the crowd of gathered people and then his face tilted upwards to regard the finely crafted bronze statue. The people followed his gaze curiously.
King Markus nodded to the statue slightly and spoke softly. “Tell her story.”
The storyteller inclined his head slightly. He lifted the tankard and took a slow drink. Sighing in appreciation he replaced the tankard and settled himself, placing his hands on his thighs and leaning forwards.
“My friends,” He began, “many of you have walked past this statue every day. I daresay most of you have spared a glance at the pretty girl who stands above me. Perhaps you have noted her simple clothing. Maybe you have wondered about her, your eyes searching out a plaque or inscription.
Many in the crowd smiled to themselves while others nodded. One young boy, was looking intently at the statue. He frowned.
“There ain’t no words!”
The storyteller nodded. “That’s right my young friend. She has no name plate, no inscription.”
The child was about to ask another question but he was silenced by his mother. The boy scowled angrily but the storyteller raised a placating hand.
“It’s all right lad, I know what you were going to ask. Who is she?”
The boy nodded.
“Well, that is the question, and what follows is the best answer I can give.”
“Many, many years ago, a very long time before any of you were born, there was a wicked king. He was very cruel to his people and taxed them mercilessly. He punished the guilty far beyond their crimes and drafted most of the young men into his armies to fight his petty wars.
It was a very sad time for the city. The people were poor and many fell to disease, some died of starvation, or were imprisoned for being unable to pay the taxes. But the king seemed not to care. He was only interested in how much gold he had, and who he was fighting with this year.
One day, he received a visit from the elders of the city. They hoped the king might find some small measure of sympathy and ease the burdens on his people. But do you know what happened?”
Several of the children had huddled closer as he spoke and were now shaking their heads.
“Well, my friends.” The storyteller continued, leaning closer still. “The king became enraged. ‘How dare they’, he cried. He stamped around the castle accusing his people of being lazy and disloyal. He simply could not understand why his people would be so faithless. He was so furious he could barely sleep that night, determined to prove to everyone he was right.
The next morning he dressed in his finest clothes. After a hearty breakfast, he summoned his guards and made his way down to this very market square. The people bowed and scraped as he past, never daring to look up. The King looked around, searching for proof of his convictions.
Firstly, he approached a fruit seller. Much of the woman’s fruit was bruised and few items had their full growth. He smiled, thinking he might have found his proof.
‘Trader,’ he exclaimed, ‘why is your fruit in such poor condition? Are you so idle that you cannot tend to your orchards properly?’
The fruit seller shook her head. ‘Sire,’ she said, ‘all of my best fruit is sent to the castle for your feasts, or the garrisons to feed your troops. Your factors personally select all the best fruit before every market day. This is all I have left to feed your people.’
The king grunted in grudging acceptance but was clearly annoyed at the response. He nodded curtly and turned away. He walked across to an ironmonger’s stall where he frowned at the tin and bronze items on display.
‘Trader, where are your iron goods? Are you so inept that you cannot keep your fires hot enough? Or are you so weak you cannot hammer the steel?’
The ironmonger shook his head. ‘No Sire, if truth be told, there is precious little iron to buy as Your Majesty’s armourers buy it all in order to clad your knights in fine mail shirts, or to make strong swords for your men at arms and nails for your warships. Your people have to make do with what I can buy after I have paid your taxes.’
The King’s brow furrowed and his cheeks coloured in anger. This was not what he had expected to hear and he felt that his people were reproaching him. He turned away crossly and strode to a baker’s stall. Eyeing the poor goods on display he tore open a loaf. He sniffed, and took a cautious bite. Screwing up his face he spat out the bread.
‘Baker!’ He sputtered angrily, ‘this loaf is course and gritty. Explain why you are producing such poor fare; are you so lazy you cannot make flour?’
‘Sire,’ the baker began nervously, ‘your bakers and cooks buy up most of the good flour for your stores and your armies stomachs. I have to use only the poorest flour, and yes, I have to add mashed potatoes, chalk and even sawdust to make it go further. I make no apologies. Had I the flour I would make better, but at least
your people have food enough to live on.’
The King was now livid. He was being made to look like a fool. He stomped away and stood by the water trough that stood right where I am sitting now. He stared into the distance considering what punishments to exact on his disrespectful subjects. Just then, he happened to catch sight of a girl walking through the marketplace. She was dressed only in the simplest of peasant garb, but she held herself like a princess. His anger drained away and he looked at her in open admiration
The King, feeling for once in his life clumsy and awkward, quickly walked back to the fruit seller.
‘Trader, who is that girl who wanders so carefree in my city?”
‘I know not her name, Sire,’ said the woman, ‘but she is a gentle and caring soul, gifted in healing. Last week she helped cure my youngest daughter of the flux. I
think perhaps the ironmonger may know more. I see him speak to her often.’
The king nodded and walked back to the ironmonger. He pointed out the girl, who was smiling and laughing with a cloth merchant, ‘Trader, who is that girl with the hair like finely spun gold?’
The ironmonger smiled. ‘I know not her name, Sire. But she is wise beyond compare. Only last month she helped curb my drinking and my temper, thus saving my marriage. Now my wife and I are happy as can be. Perhaps you should ask the baker. I am sure he knows her quite well.’
The king, growing frustrated once again at not getting the answers he wanted, turned impatiently and strode back to the baker.
‘Baker,’ he barked, pointing at the girl who was now chatting with some children, ‘who is that woman?”
The baker followed his pointing finger and nodded smiling. ‘Sire, that is a most generous and selfless young lady. Why, a few weeks ago when I was sick with a fever, she baked my bread and tended my stall and would not take a single penny for herself.’
‘But what is her name, Baker?”
The Baker frowned. ‘Why, now you come to mention it, Sire, I do not believe I ever learned her name. But everyone knows her. She helps all folk without any thought of taking.’
The King’s scowl returned in full. Clearly, his entire city was populated by fools. Moreover, he was not sure he believed his subjects; no one could be so selfless and noble. He walked over to the girl who turned and smiled as he approached. For a moment, the King seemed unable to speak. He stood gaping for a moment before he could find his courage.
‘Fair lady, might you spare a moment for your King?’
The girl nodded still smiling. ‘I can Your Majesty, though I am not a subject of your kingdom, I am staying here but a while.’
The King seemed taken aback. ‘I see. I gather from my people that you are something of an angel in disguise with all your good deeds. Tell me lady, what profit do you make from all these good deeds. I cannot believe you do not benefit in some way. ’
Tilting her head, the girl considered. ‘Profit?’ she replied. ‘No profit as you would have it, Sire, but the thanks I receive make me happy and pleased that I can help.’
The King’s face darkened, but then he smiled, but unlike the girl’s gentle joy, his smile was full of craving and slyness.
‘Then good lady, perhaps you would do a service for me?’
The girl nodded. ‘Indeed Your majesty, I shall do you a great service, though you will not recognise it as such till it is too late.’
The King seemed not to hear as he continued unabated.
‘Then here is what I would have of you. Be my wife, and bear me strong sons and pretty daughters with hair like gold.’
The girl sighed, and to many it seemed her eyes were filled with sorrow. ‘Alas Sire, I cannot do as you ask. I shall not marry you, for your heart is of cold stone with no place for love inside.”
The King stood silent a moment, his fists clenched. Then he spoke softly. ‘But lady, my life is lonely; my castle is too large for me alone. I would share with you my wealth and power. I beg you to reconsider and ease my loneliness.’
Perhaps the King was playing a cruel game by trying to call on her giving nature, or perhaps the King was speaking from his heart, but regardless the girl shook her head.
‘No King, I cannot and will not. If I have air to breath, bread to eat and water to drink, then I am wealthy. If I can bring a smile to someone in need, then I have the greatest power a person can hold. You can offer me nothing of true value.’
Now the king showed his renewed anger, all his earlier rage magnified and redirected.
‘You shall marry me! You are in my city and subject to my rule!’
He reached out his hand to grasp her arm and she stepped to one side. He tried to grab her again but no matter how hard he tried, she seemed to always be able to evade his clutching hands. His face grew red and his eyes blazed as he drew his sword.
‘Damn you woman, hold still! Guards, take her!”
The King’s men moved to take the girl, but suddenly the market folk came from all sides forming a wall between the King and the girl, in the centre were the stern faces of the fruit seller, the ironmonger and the baker. The King howled in fury at this open rebellion and raised his sword above the ironmonger’s head.
‘Stand aside,’ the King snarled. But the ironmonger stood his ground. With a howl of fury, the sword slashed downwards.”
The storyteller paused and took another drink while taking a glance around the crowd. Every eye was on his face and it seemed the entire throng held their breath. He waited a few seconds, letting the anticipation grow and then he spoke again.
“No one can say for certain what happened next, but the next moment the ironmonger was pushed aside and in his place stood the girl. Then it was over, she had been cut almost in two so great was the blow.
The King, it was said, went as white as a sheet. He dropped his bloody sword on the ground next to her dead body. With a cry of anguish that wrung every heart there, he fled back to the castle. The folk gathered in the marketplace stood in stunned silence. Eventually, they took up what was left of the girl and bore her away.
For many days the King shut himself in his chambers and took little in the way of food or water. Days became weeks and summer turned to autumn.
It was on the autumn equinox when he finally emerged from his chambers. Few recognised him for he was thin and wasted and seemed many years older. But there was a new understanding in his eyes. Over the next few days he ordered his armies home, signed peace treaties with his neighbours and reduced the taxes. He tore up the old law books and set about writing new, fair laws. The same laws this land holds to this day.
A full year to day after those terrible events in the marketplace the King unveiled this very statue that I now lean my back against. From that day to this one, the kingdom has been a fair and just place to live. The King himself eventually found love and his wife bore sons who grew to be fair and wise, as were their children, on down through the generations to our very own dear King Markus.”
The Storyteller leant back, smiling, and the crowd stood quietly, some looking at the old king but many more gazing up at the statue of the girl. Finally the little boy broke the silence.
“But… who was she then?”
The Storyteller shrugged. “I know not her name. Like all of us here, it is not our name, or how wealthy we are that matters. It is what we do with our lives that defines us, and that is the lesson the girl taught us.”
At those words it was if a spell had been lifted. The crowd began to disperse talking amongst themselves, many of them throwing coins into the old man’s hat murmuring respectful thanks. The King nodded to him, smiling.
“My thanks, old friend, I grew up with the story, but you have a way of bringing it to life like no other.”
The Storyteller nodded his thanks, and the old King smiled once more and then turned slowly making his way back towards the castle.
The last to leave was the little boy. He searched through his pockets with a concerned expression then, his face changing to one of delight, he pulled a small wrapped honey sweet from his pocket and handed it to the Storyteller. The old man chuckled as he accepted it.
“My thanks, young sir.”
The boy flushed and grinned, and then ran off to join his parents. The storyteller counted his coins and poured them into his pouch. He placed the cap on his head and drained his tankard. He turned his head slightly towards the slim figure who now sat beside him, their face hidden beneath the hood of a cloak.
“Near cut in half? “
The voice was young and feminine and laced with gentle humour. “As I recall it was a single thrust to the heart.”
The storyteller smirked. “Artistic Licence. Besides, it’s more dramatic this way. You told me they have to remember. I make sure that they do.” He shook his purse appreciatively. “ I’ll say this, they pay better these days, that’s for sure.”
He picked up his stick and rose up slowly, grunting with the effort.
“So,” he said softly, “same time next year?”
The figure tucked an errant strand of fine, gold hair into her hood and nodded.
“As always, old friend.”
